The Fourth Visitor
by Pricycle Bicycle
Summary: After Sherlock's "death" and an unlikely mourner.


**Apologies as it didn't upload properly last time. Sorry if you're (however unlikely this is) a keen follower of these awful fan-fics as I have only finished 1. I am still writing up the next chapters of the others but I have never been one for only sticking to 1 so I've written this. It doesn't necessarily have any relation to either of the previous fan-fics I've written, although I'm sure if you use your imagination you can sniff out a link. Yep another goddamn Sherlock one. Say if you'd like to see something different other the next one could be a very interesting detailed description of Lestrade's cup of tea…Actually, that's not a bad idea…**

The Fourth Visitor

A veiled woman dressed in black crossed the gravel path, shivering slightly in the cold winter's morning. The wind bit at her skin, ice cold and ferocious. The grass was crisp and wet, crunching underfoot as she walked past numerous graves. They were as old as the graveyard itself; some seemed older still. The headstones of thousands in varying stages of ruin. Some completely reduced to rubble with age, others only beginning to crumble. The closer to the present the dates on the headstones got, the smaller the graves seemed to become, until one rich aristocrat demanded a huge memorial of sorts once they were dead, in which a large stone tomb or statue of said pompous imbecile was erected, reducing space for those who could not afford such luxuries.

She had a withered rose in her hands. Once scarlet, the crinkled flower was now paler, its stem greyer. She had thought about bringing a new one, a living flower, but she did not want to preserve the dead. She had always found it easier to move on and forget. It was always easier. Whether or not anyone found it cold or cruel in anyway did not bother her. In the end wasn't that what she really was inside? Cold and cruel?

She had worn the veil simply to disguise herself. The funeral had been weeks ago, John's visits had already grown rarer, Mrs Hudson's ceased all together. Mycroft had visited only once, standing in front of the grave for maybe fifteen seconds showing no emotions what-so-ever, as was the Holmes way when it came to death. Their hadn't been any other visitors. The woman smiled to herself slightly. He would not have expected or wanted family and "friends" to cry and mourn for months over his dead body. She was surprised in a way he hadn't donated his body. Sherlock had always enjoyed cutting up, setting fire to and hiding body parts. Why should his be any different?

An old man sobbed over his wife's grave but the woman looked on. Had he not expected this? Was he stupid enough to think the love of his life would live forever? Everybody dies in the end and everybody knows it. The sooner you accept it is the sooner you can get over brief changes in nature like the death of a human.

Irene Adler had known for years that loving was not a benefit of life, although it had fooled millions already. It was the human mind leading itself knowingly into a trap. An inevitable trap. No one could escape the jaws of death so why bother tying yourself down to unavoidable disappointment? They would always say afterwards that it had been worth it. That they had been the best part of their life. Now the best part of their life was dead and they still thought it satisfactory to be devastated, maybe broken hearted about it. Surely it was their fault for leading themselves into that mess.

This was why she did what she did. Why the woman was The Woman. If you take away the love and devotion, pleasure is all you get. None of the chaotic relationship nonsense that many normal people dealt with. What you wanted was what you got, if you were willing to pay of course but what was wrong with that? Everyone has a fantasy they want to live and more often then not people (or rather, clients) would choose the opposite of the affiliation with a person that will _always _end in misery. Always.

By now she had found his grave. It wasn't ridiculous or pretentious, drawing all attention to it, but it was still had to miss the overwhelmingly simple, but obvious shiny black headstone inscribed "Sherlock Holmes" in old lettering. There wasn't even a date. Irene Adler rolled her eyes. In a way this was, if not more arrogant than the stupid statues. A passer-by would only see his name. Only the "important" name of the only consulting detective.

The grave was the newest in the cemetery as far as she could see and it was bare. The long dead flowers left, presumably by Mrs Hudson, had blown off the grave from the harsh wind.

Irene didn't want to linger long. Partly because she was supposed to be dead and someone like John could come any second and there was only so many female "friends" Sherlock had to mourn his grave. The other part…

Irene was not ready to admit to herself why else she didn't want to stare down at all that was left of him. She wasn't ready to become a normal person with normal emotions. The flower choice was sentimental enough surely.

She bent down and lay the dying rose across the mound of dirt in front of the tombstone. As if the weather couldn't get any more dismal by this point it began to rain. Another reason to get away from this place.

Irene straightened up, adjusting the veil again and looked at the grave one last time. As she looked up she saw a man, about a hundred metres away, turn and walk off. She hadn't had that good a look at him but she was sure she'd seen him raise and eyebrow and smirk. A worryingly familiar expression to her.

She wasn't even sure. It could have been anybody at all, if not for the striking facial features. Cheekbones…

But no. It was impossible. Whether she'd wanted it to be him or not, it couldn't be. She turned away, bowing her head against the rain, and began her journey back to…Where had she come from again? Her thoughts of home had temporarily been forgotten. Her mind was full with the man. She wondered whether he was following her, but she could not find out with turning to stare in the opposite direction.

For the first time in months, whether it meant danger or not, Irene Adler smiled.

**Not sure whether to write a sequel to this. Review you thoughts? Smiley face nudge nudge etc.**


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